


Crooked Ways

by BL4CKB377Y



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Redemption, Slow Build, Slow Burn, good guy Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BL4CKB377Y/pseuds/BL4CKB377Y
Summary: I'm married to the dark;All echoes of an ancient heart.I am daggers and knives.And when the seasons change,I creep back to my crooked ways.Run if you think you can.This is a gift fic for my friend Circle for his birthday!
Relationships: Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Crooked Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CircleUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircleUp/gifts).



_You came and washed the night away._  
_I haven't felt this way in ages._  
_Are you haunting me, or have I finally gone to sleep?_  
~ Motion City Soundtrack  
  
~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks. That's how long he had been in the hospital under guard. There had been complications with some of his internal.injuries and he'd gone under the knife again only a couple days after his talk with Stark. He had gotten a pretty nasty infection shortly after that, and his body apparently took issue with his new prosthetic hip... Needless to say, his injuries had not been a simple fix the first time around. So, yes, it was about three weeks later that they finally cleared him healthy enough for discharge on his own.

They had given him some scrubs to wear, a replacement ID, and credentials from SHIELD. They had even called a cab to drive him home. At least that hadn't changed. He still had his top floor single bedroom apartment with private access to the roof. That was about the only thing that was the same, though. Brock's personal style where he had come from had been militaristic and utilitarian. Simplistic. Functional. Bare necessities. Anybody could have lived at his old place.There had been little in the way of personal touches, except his weapons. Nothing to give himself away. Nothing that could have been used against him.

The Brock from this world, however, was like an entire 180 in comparison. The opposite side of the coin. There were pictures on the wall, and the mantle. A fucking fireplace, really? And a fuckin' breakfast nook? Lots of photos of Brock with various members of the Avengers, the president, his unit, his Mama and his family. Some were formal. Some were very candid and informal. Like a real fucking person lived here. A person with an actual life and real friends. He had a few medals and certificates displayed. A purple heart. Medal of Honor. Medal of Valor, etc. Fuckin' A. This motherfuckin' boy scout, here... Brock had a hard time believing he could have ever turned out this way... Then again, was it really so far a stretch? It was all about sliding doors wasn't it? Opportunities. Choices.

His eyes caught a picture of Brock with his Mom where his ugly mug was grinning like a damn fool as his mama kissed him firmly on the cheek... "Ma?" He said as he lifted the picture off the mantle and regarded it with reverence. It had to be recent because he looked like him now. The same wrinkles, crow's feet, little flecks of salt and pepper in his sideburns and facial hair. Mama looked like how he always imagined she'd look in her 70s. Still gorgeous... Still _alive_...

In the world he'd come from, Brock's mom had died ages ago. Cancer. That had been part of the reason why Hydra had been able to bait and hook him so easily. He'd lost his compass. His only support. The only one who'd ever believed in him; believed he was better than his impulses and dark side. Had that been the difference? This Brock had Mama Carmina Romelo to keep him on the straight and narrow...

No wonder he was such a fuckin' boy scout...

Brock sniffled. "Quit bein' a fuckin' pussy," he whispered at himself under his breath as he bashed at his face and put the picture gently back on the mantle where he'd found it.

He hobbled on his crutch over to the wooden box on the entry table, opened it, and cursed when all he found inside was some spare change and junk. "Fuck," he cursed again. Don't tell him this motherfucker didn't smoke? Bet he didn't have an alcohol problem, either... Fuckin' cocksuckin’ goody two shoes.

Brock couldn't be here right now. He needed a fucking cigarette and to blow off some fucking steam. This shit was too fucking much...

~~~~~~~~~~

A fresh carton of Menthols, a hot sandwich from Joe's -thank god they were still there- and about an hour of gimpy strolling around the city later, Brock was at an impasse. He was fucking exhausted, but the last thing he wanted to do was to go back to that fucking nightmare of a temple to his Saintly other self. He needed to be doing something productive, despite doctor's orders for taking it easy. He was going to go stir crazy doing nothing but wallowing in his misery.

The Triskelion was apparently fully intact in this world, no helicarrier accidents like where he'd come from. If his credentials still worked, maybe he could find some fucking answers. With his mind made up, Brock took a cab out to HQ, where he was greeted with friendly or professional greetings and hellos.

 _"Good to see you on your feet, Captain Rumlow."_ Captain? Fuckin' A. All right. He could get used to that.

 _"Good morning, Brock!"_ Yeah, hey, hi. How are ya?

He recognized a few people, said greetings to a few others, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was like slipping into a favorite slinky dress... Or worn leather gloves. He felt more confident of himself, despite his obvious impairments. Yeah. He used to fucking own this shit. Hell, he still did. Brock owned this shit.

He found his way to Strike's old offices, and apparently they weren't a Hydra cover here, but a legit spec and back ops force if SHIELD. They greeted him with aplomb and respect. _Sir. Captain. Boss._ Fuck yeah, he could get used to this. He even had his own fucking office? Fuckin' A, all right. Maybe this shit wasn't so bad. Respect through achievement instead of fear? What a fuckin' world...

In his office, -- _his office_. He didn't know if he was _ever_ going to get used to that. -- Brock spent some time doing research, primarily about himself, but also a bit of everything else. He wasn't trying to delve into a bunch of covert shit, he just desperately needed to catch himself up on events of this world. It wasn't exactly like the one he had come from, wasn't even the same year. Apparently, something everyone called "the blip" had wiped out half of life in the entire fucking galaxy. Holy fucking shit. It hadn't even been for power or domination. Damn. Schmidt would roll over in his fucking grave. They blocked the exact specifics from him, though, because of his limited clearance. _Thanks, Stark._

After an hour of staring at his screen, Brock rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee mug to take a drink, which was when he found it empty. Damn. None of the interns or probies seemed to be around for him to ask to refill it again, either. Double Damn. Must be out to lunch. With a heavy, resigned sigh, Brock locked his terminal, then reached for his crutch as he went through the arduous task of just getting himself to a standing position once more. The amount of old man exertion noises he made should probably embarrass him, but eventually, he hobbled with his gimpy gait out of his office and down the hall to the break room.

Once there, he found the carafe was fucking empty, and when he opened the filter compartment, someone had left the old grounds to fester. He groaned in frustration. The sink was on the other side of the break room along with the filters and grounds which he could see through the clear fiberglass cabinet doors, and the trash was on the other, other side.

"Ya gotta be fuckin' kidding me..." He cursed under his breath. He might be out of the hospital, but he was still completely fucked. It took forever to do some of the most basic of actions because he had one entire arm, and one entire leg just completely out of commission. He had been looking for a cup of coffee, not a fucking _chore_.

"I know," a voice by the door said. "No one ever makes a new pot. There's a sign, people."

There was a 'please make a fresh pot if you pour the last cup' sign that somebody had maturely written 'never' below in pen, and of course as in every office environment everyone ignored it. Brock slowly analyzed the newcomer before him as he moved to trash the old grounds. He then prepared a new pot by dumping some fresh grounds into a new filter in the slot, then filled the pot with water from the faucet which was poured into the tank, then he set the empty pot in the cradle before he turned the brewer on.

"Never a boot around when you need one, right?" Brock asked when Clint was done. The man was familiar, in an uncanny valley way. He looked like Barton, _Hawkeye_ , but the Clint from Brock's world had brown hair and wasn't deaf. This man had straw-blonde hair and was apparently deaf enough to need hearing aids; Brock could see the small, custom-made black buds in his ears with STARK INDUSTRIES printed in tiny letters on them. Brock knew Hawkeye as an Avenger where he came from, and had never seen him out of his uniform. This man was dressed in civilian clothes, a rumpled t-shirt and jeans, and had a few bandages over nicks on his arms and hands. A hands-on fighter, then. Brock had seen more than his share of _them_. "Thanks for doing all that, by the way. Woulda taken me ages in my current state." He gestured at the forearm crutch beneath his arm.

Clint nodded and waved his hand vaguely in the air as if to wave off the concern. "Not a problem. I don't mind doing it. You need a mug? Cream?"

Brock shook his head. "Nah, black is fine."

Clint made a disgusted face, which Brock tried very hard _not_ to find adorable. "Really? Why would you do that to yourself?"

Brock shrugged. "I can't taste anything, so all that froofroorah is just empty calories, ya know?"

Clint gave him a once over, head to toe. "I hardly think someone like you has to count calories."

Thank you," Brock said with a touch of smugness in his tone. He currently carried less than 5% body fat, a feat he was insanely proud of and had worked hard for his whole life. Clint hadn't made it known that he knew Brock, so the STRIKE Commander was hoping to take that as the blessing in disguise it might be. "I'm Brock, by the way." He extended his uninjured left hand.

"Barton." Clint introduced himself, seamlessly taking the offered hand with his own left one. "Mind if I ask what happened?" Clint nodded his chin towards Brock's injured leg, the cast of which was sticking out from the open leg of the snap away pants the other man was wearing.

"I, uh--" Brock paused to rub the back of his head with his hand. "--had a building fall on me. _This_ building to be precise, though I fell through a portal in the process so only part of it fell with me, which is probably the only reason I'm still alive."

"Yikes," Clint said with a wince, then his head tilted at Brock and a knowing gaze passed over his eyes. Brock can't help but think that may be it. The jig is up. Clint knows and he's going to hate him, too. "You were there with the fall," Clint said, though it wasn't a question.

Brock let out a sigh as his eyes shifted downcast, and he nodded his head. "Yeah. I, uh--" He cleareds his throat, then swallowed noticeably. "--Apparently, I'm supposed to have turned into some sort of psycho terrorist afterward, or something, I guess. I dunno." He shrugged, unsure of what to say or do, so he just kept staring at the tile at his feet, counting numbers in Italian in his head.

"Who told you that?" asked Clint.

The slight tone of anger or offense in Clint's voice surprises Brock and makes him lift his head. "Uh..." His brows pinch in the center. "Stark and Coulson kinda described the bigger picture to me, their version of events from where they came from." Not where Brock had come from. "All the shit the me they knew did." Some real, awful, crazy, _evil_ shit that Brock didn't think he was actually capable of, but apparently in some universes he was.

"And did you do any of that shit?" Clint asks, serious.

Brock shrugs. "I mean... I've done some shit, but--not what they're _accusing_ me of."

"Well, fuck that, then," Clint says again as he tears open a cabinet and grabs a mug to set firmly on the counter next to the coffee maker. "They shouldn't judge _you_ for shit you didn't actually do."

Brock's chest tightens at the almost righteous indignation Clint is expressing on his behalf. "Nah, kid, it's ok."

"It's not ok," Clint insists.

Brock huffs out his nose and sighs. "Where I came from, I wasn't exactly the good guy, so I don't-- _blame_ them for hatred and distrust. I got a lot of penitence to make."

"Are you a bad guy now?" Clint asks him, still serious, still intense.

Brock fish mouths a little. Was he still a bad guy? With Rollins gone, and no more Hydra breathing down his neck, neither of them threatening to destroy Brock and everything he knows, was he still a bad guy? Now that he was free to make his own choices and stop living in a constant state of fear and violence, was he still a villain? "I don't--I don't know," he answers honestly.

Clint's hand is suddenly on his shoulder, and Brock turns to look where he sees the blonde smiling softly at him, a genuine kindness and understanding reflecting in his eyes; things Brock hasn't known much of in his life. It throws him off guard, off balance, and he doesn't know how to process it right away. "It's ok," Clint says. "I think we're all here to kind of figure things out, ya know?"

Brock just nods dumbly, not knowing what to say. It's been a long time since anyone has shown him such open kindness when Brock wasn't deliberately manipulating it out of them while being a fake piece of shit. He's so lost in the moment, in the utterly foreign situation, that when he feels something pressing against his hand, he has to blink out of his head. When he looks down, Clint has pressed a warm cup of coffee into his hand, and the blonde is still smiling at him with that same smile; open, honest, kind. He doesn't deserve it. He's a monster made from darkness and death who would ruin someone like Clint just by being around him.

Brock has a heavy frown on his face when he adjusts the crutch on his forearm. "I gotta go."

Clint's smile softens and he steps away. "Seeya, Rumlow," Clint calls after him, which only makes Brock hobble faster, desperate to get away.

He'd never given Clint his last name, which meant Clint knew _exactly_ who he was, and yet he had been so kind to him anyway? Brock can't tear the door of the nearest room open fast enough before ducking inside and slamming it behind him to lean back against it. It's a utility closet, thank god. He can have a panic attack in peace.


End file.
